rding my
astonishment--"where is the hundred thousand?"

"Find the woman."

"Did you ever hear of Anderson, the nerve specialist?" he asked, without
apparent relevancy.

"I have been thinking of him," I answered. "If we could get Wardrop
there, on some plausible excuse, it would take Anderson about ten
minutes with his instruments and experimental psychology, to know
everything Wardrop ever forgot."

"I'll go on one condition," Burton said, preparing to leave. "I'll
promise to get Wardrop and have him on the spot at two o'clock
to-morrow, if you'll promise me one thing: if Anderson fixes me with his
eye, and I begin to look dotty and tell about my past life, I want you
to take me by the flap of my ear and lead me gently home."

"I promise," I said, and Burton left.

The recovery of the bag was only one of the many astonishing things that
happened that day and the following night. Hawes, who knew little of
what it all meant, and disapproved a great deal, ended that afternoon by
locking himself, blinking furiously, in his private office. To Hawes any
practice that was not lucrative was bad practice. About four o'clock,
when I had shut myself away from the crowd in the outer office, and was
letting Miss Grant take their depositions as to when and where they had
seen a little old lady, probably demented, wandering around the streets,
a woman came who refused to be turned away.

"Young woman," I heard her say, speaking to Miss Grant, "he may have
important business, but I guess mine's just a little more so."

I interfered then, and let her come in. She was a woman of medium
height, quietly dressed, and fairly handsome. My first impression was
favorable; she moved with a certain dignity, and she was not laced,
crimped or made up. I am more sophisticated now; The Lady Who Tells Me
Things says that the respectable women nowadays, out-rouge, out-crimp
and out-lace the unrespectable.

However, the illusion was gone the moment she began to speak. Her voice
was heavy, throaty, expressionless. She threw it like a weapon: I am
perfectly honest in saying that for a moment the surprise of her voice
outweighed the remarkable thing she was saying.

"I am Mrs. Allan Fleming," she said, with a certain husky defiance.

"I beg your pardon," I said, after a minute. "You mean--the Allan
Fleming who has just died?"

She nodded. I could see she was unable, just then, to speak. She had
nerved herself to the interview, but it was ev